


A River in Egypt

by spare



Series: Life, Love, & Lots of Yummy Food [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Birthday, Denial, Dreams, Eclair - Freeform, Episode 1, Fluff, Food, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, VictUuri, Victor is Still Eros'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spare/pseuds/spare
Summary: Alternately titledPizza and Champagne 2: Deny Harder.In which Victor Nikiforovdoesn'tpine for a certain handsome, charming, gloriously drunk Japanese skater who certainly didnotsweep him off his feet. Of course not.(Spoilers:1. He does, and 2. Yuuri Katsuki did—literally.)





	A River in Egypt

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the wait! And instead of candy, I switched to éclairs. (Er, sorry again? ^^;) But here it is, the ~~still ridiculously long but~~ shorter sequel to [Pizza and Champagne](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019366). Cheers!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** We have Mitsurou Kubo, Sayo Yamamoto, Kenji Miyamoto, and Studio MAPPA to thank for the masterpiece that is _Yuri!!! on Ice_. The story below is a free fanwork published solely for entertainment.

**1 - December, the latter half:**

Victor does end up sending the thank-you text to Chris—short and simple, with a smiley emoji at the end—but stops short of outright asking his friend for any pictures.

He doesn't get to talk to Yuuri Katsuki in the morning.

Victor oversleeps, you see (or _under_ , considering the time he does drift off); and the next thing he knows it's after eleven and Yakov's banging at the door, demanding whether or not he wants the rest of Team Russia to leave without him. (The joke's on Yakov, of course: it would transpire that Team Russia won't be leaving Sochi, Victor or no, for at least three more hours, because _Aeroflot_.) Yuuri Katsuki and his coach (who had not booked Aeroflot, the lucky souls) had checked out of the hotel only a couple of hours prior.

It's all for the best, really, or so Victor would tell himself later, watching wan winter sunlight feebly filter through the windows of the VIP airport lounge. His evening spent dancing with the drunken, debonair skater from Japan had been a momentary madness; a one-night stand without the sex, as it were. However much fun he'd had during, however much it had left him breathless immediately after, in the end it had only ever been— a reprieve, of sorts. It had been a welcome diversion, but still a diversion; a delightful little dalliance, nothing more. Nothing to risk his whole career over. Nothing to risk all that he has over.

Certainly nothing to constantly find himself mulling over, as if it should mean something, be something more.

Because it isn't.

_“Be my coach—”_

(Is it?)

With a sigh, Victor pulls up the photo—the blurry one, the first of five—on his phone. Yuuri Katsuki's brown, beautiful, come-hither eyes seem to gaze right back into his own.

Had Yuuri meant what he said, or had it been the champagne talking?

And if he had— well, what of it?

Victor frowns. He ought to delete the picture already, that's what. He should delete _all_ of the pictures of Yuuri Katsuki from his phone, as well as the video of the dance-off he'd recorded; put the memory of that night behind him and move on.

(He doesn't.)

(He can't.)

Instead he scrolls right up to the fifth photo, remembering the cold mouth of the champagne bottle almost touching his cheek; Yuuri's hot breath wisping against his neck.

_Maybe later,_ Victor defers, and pockets his phone. He'll give it a few more days—maybe a week at most, what does it matter?—and _then_ he'll delete them all for sure. By that point he would have likely forgotten about them altogether, too, between training and interviews and much-needed bonding time with Makkachin.

For now, however, several hours and a delayed flight away from St. Petersburg, Victor dares to dream.

~o~

(A few nights later, back in his apartment, Victor does have a dream. In it, he is able to wake up early enough to invite Yuuri out for morning coffee. They chat, exchange contact info, and promise to keep in touch. Victor accidentally spills coffee on Yuuri's blue tie, thereby ruining it. Victor apologizes, but Yuuri just smiles that kind, earnest smile and says _No, it's fine, I was planning to burn that thing anyway._ And then Yuuri reaches over the table and grabs _Victor's_ tie—)

(—And Victor wakes up in bed with no memory of the dream, wondering why his heart is pounding.)

~o~

His twenty-seventh birthday comes and goes much like the last thirteen before it: he medals at the Russian Nationals (gold, but that's been a given since he turned sixteen), posts a _Thank You!_ selfie for the gifts and well-wishes fans have sent, and retires, after the obligatory dinner party, to his hotel room.

It's nearing midnight when he receives the text from Chris. **Congrats, and Happy Birthday,** it reads. **And once again, my friend, you're welcome. ;)**

Attached is a slideshow of thirty-odd photos labelled _GPF Banquet <3_.

Victor knows he shouldn't. He really shouldn't.

(He does.)

  


He feels doubly guilty for it when he gets wind of Yuuri Katsuki's 'startling loss' at the Japanese Nationals.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” Yuri Plisetsky hisses through clenched teeth, punching the poor, defenseless surface of the changing room bench. For all the teenager's talk of the Japanese skater's latest FS performance being 'too painful to watch', his eyes are practically glued to his phone screen. “ _Get up!_ You can still— Oh, damn it!”

Victor quickly swipes the phone before the younger skater could throw it. “I can watch it now, I take it?” Victor asks. He is tempted to add, but deems it wise not to voice, _You know, like you initially offered?_

“Go right ahead; I just—” Yuri lets out a disgusted huff, “I don't care.”

“On the contrary,” Victor hums beneath his breath, “I think you do.”

“What?”

“... Nothing.”

Victor watches the video. Yuuri Katsuki does well for the first minute or so of it—he skates cleanly, his opening step sequence as brilliant as it is captivating—but then he flubs his first jump, and the rest of the program just goes downhill from there. It's pretty much a repeat of Yuuri's disastrous FS from Sochi, only worse: he straight up falls during a planned 3A-3T combination instead of stepping out, and merely manages to muddle through, puppet-like, with what should have been a stunning pearl, camel and sit spin combination. By the end of it, Victor is appalled. _What in the world happened?_

“Hell if I know,” grouches Yuri Plisetsky, crossing his arms and glaring, Yakov-like, at Victor. “Just give me back my phone.”

~o~

( _You did remember to thank him, yes?_ Dream-Christophe would later on ask from his upside-down perch on the stage pole. _Most of the pics I gave you were his, you know._

Victor laughs, _Were they now?_ then snaps his mouth shut; it's Yuuri Katsuki on the pole now, peering mournfully down at Victor.

_I keep letting everyone down,_ Dream-Yuuri bemoans. _But I want to win. I want to._ The Japanese skater drags a thumb over Victor's lips, sliding down until they're almost nose to nose. _You'll let me win, won't you, Victor?_ )

(“Uh,” is the first thing Victor says upon waking, welcoming the very first morning of the New Year with bleary eyes and a raging hard-on.)

~o~

**2 - Late January, onwards to February:**

It's _research_ , not cyberstalking, or so Victor would rationalize, clicking on one Katsuki Yuri's bio on the JSF official website.

Besides, he's bored; en route to Euros, not even twenty minutes into the first of a four-hour layover, he needed something, anything, to occupy his time. Might as well google the guy in between sips of his caramel macchiato.

Other than the JSF profile, Victor's search also yields a wikipedia page, a few fansites, a smattering of articles in Japanese. Yuuri Katsuki has an official twitter account, last updated shortly before the Grand Prix Final. His touchbook account is private, his instagram containing a grand total of three posts; the most recent of which—a closeup of a brown toy poodle almost as adorable as Makkachin—is over a year old.

Because it would figure, wouldn't it, that Yuuri would be as elusive online as the man himself is in person.

(Not that Victor could reasonably expect to run into Japan's 'Late-Blooming Ace' at Europeans, but he could hope, right?)

(Alas.)

Feeling frustrated, bereft, and maybe a little desperate, he relents and approaches Christophe after morning practice.

“So,” Victor casually clears his throat, “Chris.”

His friend regards him curiously. “Yes?”

“You know Yuuri—Yuuri Katsuki—personally, don't you?”

“From juniors,” Christophe says with a nod. “What is this about, Victor?”

“Nothing, really,” Victor replies, and he's definitely not hemming and hawing, nor nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “It's just... I was wondering if maybe you've got—”

“I've sent you all the banquet pics I could find. You know this.”

“That's not—” Victor clears his throat once again. “Yuuri's number,” he blurts out at last. “Do you have it?”

Christophe _stares_.

“No, I'm afraid I don't,” the Swiss skater would return after a beat, hazel eyes twinkling tellingly, pityingly at him. “But I know someone. Someone who has it _bad_ , that is.”

Victor glances away. “I don't know what you mean.”

“For your sake, my friend,” Chris rejoins, not unkindly, “I hope you do.”

~o~

( _Am I really that obvious?_ Victor asks Dream-Makkachin. They're outdoors and it is snowing, a steady drift of white, reminding Victor of grains of sand in an hourglass. Soon the world will be buried in it.

_Rowf,_ the poodle replies. _Only to those who know you._ )

(Victor is roused by his alarm half an hour before the six-minute warm-up. _No Yuuri this time,_ he thinks, disappointed. _Aww._ )

~o~

Victor takes gold at Europeans, to no one's surprise; he renews an endorsement contract, shoots a couple of ads, and gears up in earnest for Worlds. For Chris' 25th birthday (Valentine's Day, incidentally), he records part of a montage of video messages that Chris' boyfriend is planning to surprise the Swiss skater with.  At his apartment, he watches the Winter Universiade on the sly, then the Four Continents Championships, and tells himself he doesn't feel let down _at all_ when Yuuri Katsuki is a no-show at both. It could be that the man really might have been injured at the All-Japan Championships, as some reports have speculated. Maybe Yuuri's taking a couple of months off to recover, and will show up at Worlds?

... He _has_ been selected for Worlds, right?

A quick internet search sucker-punches Victor with the news: Yuuri Katsuki will not be representing Japan at the World Championships. GPF fiasco aside, his 11th place finish at the Nationals had effectively dashed all hope of competing for the rest of the season. A two-month-old article mentions that the Japanese skater 'would be finishing his studies in the US in the meantime'. As to rumors regarding Katsuki having ended things with his coach, and whether that meant he was going to retire? _“No comment,”_ Yuuri had been quoted to reply. _“I am considering my options at this time.”_

Which is public relations BS for 'I've really got no clue what to do right now, don't ask me,' as Victor himself knows full well.

_What in the world **happened**?_

He should have left his own contact info with the man. He should have scribbled his mobile number on that sorry excuse for a necktie with the message, 'Keep in touch, and burn this after saving my number'. He should have woken up on time, stayed awake, even, and checked up on Yuuri Katsuki in the morning. He should have—well—done _something_.

“Still,” ponders Victor aloud, pouting at Makkachin curled up on the sofa beside him, “you'd think that he'd at least _try_ to contact me, no?”

It isn't as if he's impossible to reach online, after all. Or is Yuuri waiting for him to make the first move, like post a photo of them dancing together? (Not that Victor would, at least without the Japanese skater's express permission, even without the ban imposed by the ISU higher ups after the fact.)

Or maybe Victor's overthinking it, and Yuuri simply doesn't want to have anything to do with him now, period. Maybe the man had woken up in Sochi regretting the night they'd had. Maybe Yuuri had flirted and danced with him only because he was drunk, and in the sobering light of the following morning dismissed the lot of it the same way Victor had, at first. Maybe Yuuri had recalled how Victor had acted that evening—like an awkward teenager with a painfully obvious crush—and thought, _Man, for a so-called 'living legend', Victor Nikiforov is kind of lame in person, isn't he?_

Maybe, unlike Victor, Yuuri Katsuki _has_ moved on, instead of clinging pathetically to a memory.

“I'm such an idiot,” Victor sighs.

Makkachin licks his palm comfortingly ( _No, you're not,_ Victor would like to think it means), before going back to munch on the bowl of unflavored popcorn the poodle has pretty much appropriated throughout Victor's little research binge.

  


At least he could still find solace in practice. On the ice Victor could always let the rest of the world fall away, block everything out—Yakov's yells notwithstanding—until it's only himself and the program, the music. Embody the theme and the story as best as he can, put on the mask of the hero, the lover, the desperado, the raving lunatic. It was stupid of him to think there'd be more to this, that there's been something he's been missing beyond the continual perfection of his craft, beyond this brutal, beautiful art of hurling himself across the ice and making it look easy, exquisite. In the end, this is essentially all that he has (all that he _is_ ); to ask for anything more is just being greedy. To hope—

Ah, but therein lies the rub, doesn't it?

(Because hope had shone, bright and earnest, in Yuuri's eyes that night, and Victor is quite unable to forget it.)

_“Be my coach—”_

Victor doesn't utterly flub his jump, per se; he just two-foots the landing. It's enough to earn a concerned look from Yakov, however, as well as an inquiry, couched in the form of a reproach, as to whether he's been getting sufficient sleep of late.

“I'm fine,” he assures his coach, but doesn't offer an excuse (because he doesn't—not one he'd openly admit to, anyway, and Yakov would never suffer any). Instead he lands the jump flawlessly on his second run, lands _all_ his jumps, performing the rest of the program with his usual degree of skill.

(Still...)

“It's adequate,” is Yakov's grudging assessment at rinkside.

Victor quirks a smile. “I should hope so.”

The older man purses his lips. “It's not a compliment, Vitya.”

~o~

( _You're better than this,_ Dream-Yuuri Katsuki tells him, dipping Victor low, their faces close enough to kiss. _We both are._

Victor reaches up to caress Yuuri's cheek. _I know,_ he replies, impatient and breathless. _Now shut up and kiss me already._

But Dream-Yuuri does not. The man pulls back at the last second—such a tease, even in dreams—and they continue to dance to the music. Except—

It's not the music from the banquet, no. The melody's familiar, but different, rendered in a lilting, lively pace—)

(—And of course Victor _has_ to wake up again at that very moment, because _why_.)

~o~

Eros. Of course it would have to be Eros.

From even before the Sochi GPF, Victor's been toying with the idea of contrasts—the duality of such, for the most part—for next season. Chiaroscuro. Light and dark. Purity and corruption. Perhaps fittingly, he's been torn as to which story to tell to showcase this: would it be of an angel falling from grace? Or of a sinner finding redemption? Which one would have a stronger impact, touch people's hearts, leave a more lasting impression?

What would ultimately surprise the audience more?

(A question Victor finds it harder to answer with each passing year, to be honest.)

The music he's commissioned for what would be his short program isn't making the decision any easier, either. _On Love_ comes in two arrangements: the hauntingly ethereal _Agape_ and the lively, lusty _Eros_. Whichever he picks would be key, naturally, to the theme he'll be presenting for next season. Of the two, he found Agape far less troublesome to interpret; having devoted the near entirety of his life to the ice made evoking innocent, selfless love almost as natural as breathing. To that end, however, Victor felt it to be too 'safe'—not in terms of technical difficulty, of course, but in expression. Eros, while outwardly more straightforward, ran the risk of him delivering a performance that may as well be Chris'; or worse, be a mere extension of the playboy persona Victor had let the media cultivate for him. Far too predictable. Boring. Doing something different, something _distinct_ would be tricky, but if he could pull it off—

— _Well._

Now, thanks to Yuuri and a most memorable night in Sochi, Victor believes he can.

(Besides, it would be a huge step forward to the whole 'moving on from ~~Yuuri~~ the GPF banquet' thing.)

(If you could call actively reliving the memory of that night 'moving on', that is.)

Standing alone at the center of the rink, Victor closes his eyes— and remembers.

_He sweeps his hands across his upper body at the opening sweep of the guitar and the tambourine. He stomps his left foot forward, commanding the undivided attention of all and sundry; he cocks his head. Smirks. He begins his dance as the violin starts playing, gliding swift and sure across the ice, light, lithe and limber and absolutely loving every moment of it._

_'Look at me,' he proclaims with every sway of his hips, with every sultry sweep of his arms. 'Look only at me, and no one else. Let me capture your heart the way you've captured mine. No one else will ever suffice.'_

The spell breaks right as he lands his quad salchow, Victor realizing, with all the keenly honed sense of one used to being watched, that he's no longer alone. He turns and sees Yuri Plisetsky at rinkside, doing his darnedest to look unimpressed and failing miserably at it.

“My next short program,” Victor declares with an airy shrug. “Possibly, anyway. What do you think?”

Yuri snorts. “I think Yakov's gonna kill you if he finds you here,” the boy responds. “Aren't you supposed to be off-ice until next week?”

Victor smiles. “Aren't you?”

A beat.

“Well, whatever,” Yuri huffs, looking away. “I won't tell if you won't.”

~o~

**3 - March:**

Yuri Plisetsky turns fifteen and wins his second—and last—Junior Worlds gold a fortnight later. Victor barely gets to congratulate the teen before he himself is flown to Worlds in Tokyo, Japan. He sightsees with the others for a bit—spring has well and truly arrived in the country, its famed cherry trees replete with pale pink blossoms—and for all that he _may_ have kept an eye out for men with short yet messy black hair and blue-framed glasses, it nets him nothing but a few sympathetic glances from Chris.

(Victor knows better now than to get his hopes up, of course, but it would not be entirely unreasonable to find Yuuri Katsuki there, even as a spectator, would it?)

(But once again, alas.)

He places first at the short program—same old, same old—and musters up a winsome, winning smile for the cameras, for the crowd. For Yuuri ‘Couldn't Be Bothered to Say Goodbye’ Katsuki, wherever the man may be, if he's even watching right now. (In retrospect, it _was_ rather silly of him to think Yuuri'll be in Japan, just because he's Japanese. The man could still be in the US, for all Victor knows.) This is all that he'll have, and it's already plenty, and someday this yearning he still feels in his heart will pass.

(That is, Victor hopes it would.)

For now, however, for the last time, perhaps, he could use it.

_He is Alexander, the exiled prince, maddened by grief, mourning the apparent loss of his lover and childhood friend, Dmitri. He hears a voice in the distance, a cry. Could it be? But no, impossible—Mitya's dead, killed, they sent him his ring—oh, but if it is?_

_It doesn't matter. Drunk on wine and drowning in sorrow, he calls out for whoever it is. Join me, let's take comfort in each other. Stay close to me, and never leave. Together, perhaps we can be free._

_I'm ready now._

It gives Victor his best free skate of the season and a fifth consecutive gold at Worlds, so there's that.

~o~

Another competitive season, another gold medal. (Same old, same old.) There are photos to pose for and questions to answer, and an exhibition skate where Victor may or may not be planning to do another quad loop, Yakov's forehead vein be damned. With Chris standing ridiculously tall to his right, it might as well have been Sochi all over again, except the bronze medallist this time is a stoic young man around Mila's age, Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan.

Cameras flash. The three of them are herded over to the press con table for the obligatory Q and A session.

“What do you have in mind for next season?” a reporter asks.

Victor taps a finger to his chin, considering the question; it's been a while since he's had to give the answer much thought.

His mind wanders back to his free skate program, that spark he'd felt, how he'd finally grasped that connection with his character that had kept eluding him all season. Apparently he could still surprise himself.

_Yakov_ had been surprised—in a good way—and the veteran coach has seen everything.

_“Not your absolute best, but it's the most heartfelt performance I've seen you deliver in years,”_ the older man had pointed out at the kiss and cry. _“If you could channel that sincerity for next season—”_

Next season.

Well—

_“When this season ends—”_

“It's a surprise,” is what Victor eventually says, flashing his most engaging smile.

The reaction he gets varies from intrigued to tickled to open disbelief, but it's well worth it.

~o~

(He dreams again of Sochi.

They're in the ballroom again, and Dream-Yuuri's hugging him, heedless and hopeful, his body warm and wonderful against his.

Victor sighs and leans into the man's embrace. This is an excellent dream, the best, and by God, he will enjoy it.

_Victor~,_ Dream-Yuuri slurs, _when this season ends, my family runs an onsen, so please come! If we have a dance-off, and I win,_ the man babbles on, leaning back a little to gaze up at Victor in earnest, _you're gonna ask to become my coach, right?_ And Yuuri's brown eyes positively _sparkle_ at this, his smile blindingly bright, as if nothing in the world would make him happier. _Be my coach—_ )

(Victor snaps to wakefulness in an instant, almost dislodging his plush airplane blanket until he remembers that—right, connecting flight—he's flying home.)

(Back to Russia and Makkachin, anyway.)

~o~

**4 - April, the early half:**

St. Petersburg provides Victor no less than a hero's welcome: a bouquet of blue roses at the airport, a victory parade, and a celebratory toast at the office of the city governor. (Far more pre-eminent forebears and contemporaries aside, being the five-time consecutive men's singles figure skating champion for both the GPF _and_ Worlds is still a pretty big deal, after all.) The first nine days of April fly by in a frenzied flurry of interviews and sponsor meetings and charity events—and skating, because of course skating—and it's only on the tenth that Victor finally, _finally_ gets a full day off to take a breather.

He spends the first few hours of his first official off-season holiday much the same way he has for over a decade: he resolves to sleep in, but wakes up before dawn anyhow, stretches, shaves, showers, prepares breakfast for himself and Makkachin, and tries his utmost to ignore that restless, niggling feeling in his gut that he should go outside, go to the rink, maybe tackle the frustratingly uncooperative monster that is next season's free skate program. _Something._

In the end he partially relents and ventures outside with Makkachin. He leaves his phone behind to charge—it had died sometime in the night, oddly enough, even though he's sure the battery should've held up a bit longer—and since it's snowing, throws on a coat and scarf over his white and blue striped t-shirt. They'll take a walk around the block, enjoy the hushed but ever-present bustle of St. Petersburg in the early morning, then grab a coffee and a bite to eat at the local café (something rich, sweet, buttery, and not at all part of a nutritionist's meal plan, preferably) on the way home. Afterwards—

_“Be my coach, Victor~!”_

Afterwards, Victor will turn on his phone, and _then_ he'll delete all of Yuuri Katsuki's photos. (And the video. And the links, and all the other stuff he's happened to come across in his search for the man with warm brown eyes and a smile that still haunts him in his dreams.) It'll be a fresh start, a new beginning. As Yuuri has moved on, so shall he.

He'll find new strength on his own, as he always has—

_Same old, same **old**_

—And if the thought fails to light a fire in Victor's heart the way it used to, so many years before, well, _tough_.

(It already is more of the same, isn't it?)

  


(It's a sentiment he would echo later as he sits on a bench with Makkachin at his side, staring up at the still-dark sky. Snow is falling all around them, a steady drift of white, reminding Victor once again of grains of sand in an hourglass. Maybe if he stayed out here long enough, he himself will be buried in it.)

( _Would that be so bad?_ )

(He chooses not to stick around to find out.)

~o~

In any case, it's stopped snowing by the time he and Makkachin arrive at the coffee shop, the golden sun soon rising radiantly above the pearl grey sky. Victor beams at the starstruck barista behind the counter and orders a double espresso and a plateful of little caramel éclairs for himself, and a mini-packet of dog biscuits for dear old Makkachin. They take a table by one of the windows, Victor tipping a brief nod and a smile at the only other customer at the moment, an elderly man with a bushy beard and the ruddy complexion of a sailor. The man impassively gives a curt nod back before returning to peruse the news on his smartphone. If he identifies Victor as anyone beyond 'suspiciously friendly young fellow with a dog', it doesn't show.

Not a skating fan, then. The thought cheers Victor up a little, for some strange reason.

His coffee and caramels are served shortly after (that both share the color of Yuuri's eyes is a mere happenstance, of course, and need not be looked into any further). Giving his coffee a minute to cool, he picks up an éclair ( _Yuuri's eyes are a richer brown, are they not?_ ) and takes a bite.  The cake portion is fluffy and light, slightly crisp on the outside, the cream filling laced with vanilla and not too sweet, balancing perfectly with the decadent caramel, candied apple and walnut glaze. Delicious. He rather regrets not having his phone on hand to take a picture.

Victor frowns. Right; his phone. The one with all those pictures ~~of dazzlingly, delightfully drunk, dancing Yuuri~~ from the GPF banquet; the ones he is absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred _and ten_ percent, going to delete as soon as he could turn his phone back on. Absolutely.

Suddenly the éclair doesn't taste quite as good any more.

_Do I really have to, though?_

He takes a sip of espresso. Swallows. Picks up another caramel éclair and eats it, deep in thought, continuing to ponder the point.

No.

Yes.

... Maybe?

“What do you think, Makkachin?” Victor asks, forlorn, turning towards the poodle. “Should I delete Yuuri's photos?”

Makkachin just wuffs, wags his bushy tail with aplomb, and tilts his head up expectantly for a biscuit. ( _Silly man,_ is what actually goes through said poodle's mind in that instant. _Arguing in circles about doing what you don't want to do is a peculiarity I will never understand about you lot. Now hand over that tasty little treat; there's a good lad._ )

Victor lets out a laugh. “Yes,” He procures a biscuit from the pack and offers it, “Here you go, my friend. Bon appétit.”

(The elderly bearded customer looks like he's added 'a trifle touched in the head' to his earlier estimation of Victor, in the meantime.)

Might as well leave it up to fate, or so Victor supposes with a shrug, his gaze idling back to his plate of éclairs. Let the little finger-cakes decide whether or not he gets to keep those pictures. (Which probably makes the other customer's assumptions regarding his sanity not that far off the mark, but oh well.)

_I'll delete the photos,_ Victor thinks, biting into an éclair and chewing slowly. He swallows. Afterwards he takes another one from the pile and proceeds to eat it, too, thinking, _Or maybe I won't._

He repeats this for all the rest of the éclairs on his plate, keeping his eyes averted on purpose so he couldn't count the remainder. (Did he order a baker's dozen, or didn't he?)

_Delete_ —one éclair down, Lord knows how many to go; _Don't delete._

_Delete._

_Don't._

(Rinse and repeat.)

_Delete_ —Victor begins anew, but his fingers only meet the surface of the plate; so finally he looks down, and—

~o~

(“And—?” a twenty-four-year-old Yuuri Katsuki would prompt, over a year later.

“And what?” twenty-eight-year-old Victor Nikiforov would volley back.

“When you looked down,” clarifies Yuuri, “were there really no more, you know—” His fiancé gestures vaguely, “—éclairs?”

Victor simply smiles. “Well,” he replies, pointer finger held up, “I still have those pictures, don't I?”

Yuuri gives him a dubious look, but nods. “I guess...”

“There you go,” Victor says, cheerfully blithe. “So I head back home afterwards, of course, and then—”)

~o~

Not for the first time since discovering the last traitorous éclair on his plate—and absconding from the café immediately after, Victor thinks: _Fuck fate._

Fuck fate, and fuck éclairs; and most of all, fuck himself, for figuring that leaving things up for either to decide is in any way a good idea.

Glumly, grimly, Victor steps into his apartment. It's obnoxiously bright inside, and it isn't even noon yet; pale sunlight pouring in through the tall windows of the kitchenette and the skylight high above the living room. He shuts the door, hangs up his scarf and coat, and lets Makkachin run a couple of energetic circles around him before he takes off his shoes and finally trudges, barefoot, to his bedroom.

To where he'd left his phone.

With a heavy heart, Victor unplugs it from the charger (battery full, isn't _that_ just wonderful). Then he pads back to the living room, joins Makkachin on the sofa, and switches the device back on. Best get it over with now, yes? It's really high time he moved forward.

_Farewell, Yuuri._

His phone buzzes as soon as the screen comes on.

Victor blinks once, twice, and then a third, disbelieving time, eventually accepting that yes, his inbox is indeed full, and he's got a lot more missed calls, voice mails, and notifications than one should reasonably expect more than a week after Worlds.

He opens one of the myriad unread messages (nearly all seem to be about a video gone viral, and Victor's FS, and no, wait— _Yuuri Katsuki?_ ). Incidentally, it's from Chris.

**I doubt you haven't seen this by now,** it reads, **but just in case. And as always, you are very welcome.**

'This' being the viral video everyone who's anyone apparently wants him to watch.

Curiosity piqued, Victor clicks on the link, eyebrows lifting as he finds that the title of the video, along with the description, is in Japanese. He switches to fullscreen, waits the few seconds for the video to load, and—

It's Yuuri.

A tad thicker around the middle than Victor remembers, perhaps—or maybe it's the clothes—but that raven-black hair is unmistakable, as is that earnest face, and those brown eyes gazing soulfully off into the distance as Yuuri skated—no, as Yuuri's body _sang_ into life every achingly beautiful note of Stammi Vicino.

It's the entirety of Victor's free skate program from last season, and yet it's not; Yuuri triples his quads, for one, save for the toe loop, and Yuuri's spins are a bit shakier and slower than they could be. Compared to the polished perfection that the public has come to expect from Victor's own programs, Yuuri's is rough around the edges; and yet it's that same rawness, that imperfection, that nevertheless draws the eye, that takes Victor's breath away and tugs at Victor's heart and yes—

—lights a fire in it.

_“Victor~,”_ Yuuri had asked him once, one unforgettable night and a seeming lifetime before, _“when this season ends—”_

Because for all its shortcomings, Yuuri's form is still beyond beautiful, the natural grace and fluidity Victor had seen him embody on the dance floor now rendered on the ice.

_“—my family runs an onsen, so please come!”_

Because for all that it's a cover of Victor's program, Yuuri has transformed it, breathed new life into it; shown Victor that spark of something he'd long thought he'd lost.

_“Be my coach, Victor~!”_

Because for all that Yuuri lets him hear the music just fine, it's only on a rewatch that Victor realizes that the video doesn't have audio.

Well, now.

Over a week ago he'd been asked, _“What do you have in mind for next season?”_ and at a loss he'd replied, _“It's a surprise.”_

As it turns out—sweet irony of fate—it is; and all along he's had the answer in his heart.

Lifting his gaze away from the phone, Victor narrows his eyes and huffs. _I really am such an idiot, aren't I?_

A smile slowly blooms on his face regardless. “Help me pack our bags, Makkachin,” Victor tells the poodle. “We're going to Japan.”

~o~

(“Naturally, it took me a few more days to get everything sorted out,” Victor's twenty-eight-year-old self would further narrate, a full thirteen months later. “Yakov was a big help—he always is, and even though I was 'leaving the nest', so to speak; he even accompanied me all the way to the airport!” A thoughtful pause. “Then again, he did keep trying to convince me to stay up to the last minute, so I guess it wasn't _all_ altruistic.”

“He was only worried for you,” twenty-four-year-old Yuuri would reply, himself remembering how Celestino, barely a week after the Sochi GPF, had seen him off on his flight to Japan for the Nationals, even though the man was no longer his coach by then. _“Take care of yourself, and call me every now and then, alright?”_ was all Celestino had asked. It had taken Yuuri months—and Victor barging unexpectedly into his life—to be able to. “ _I_ would've tried stopping you myself. I mean, it's crazy; you were flying halfway across the world—” 

“To meet you,” Victor supplies. “And to be your coach, as you so charmingly requested.”

“But I was drunk,” Yuuri reminds him.

“So you were,” Victor hums, nuzzling Yuuri's delightfully squishy off-season tummy. “But as the saying goes, 'Honne wa yopparatta ato de'.” He looks up and smiles, sleepy-eyed. “Right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri narrows his eyes. “You've been waiting to use that line, haven't you?”

“It's the longest thing I can say in Japanese,” Victor unapologetically returns. “Well, so far. It sounds pretty impressive, too. Rolls off the tongue, like 'Ii kara ire—'”

“Stop!” Yuuri yells, red-faced, covering Victor's mouth with his hand. “W-where did you even— oh.” Yuuri blinks in realization. “Oh my God.”

Victor gives Yuuri's hand a kiss. Lifting it up so he can speak, he gazes up at his fiancé and quips, “What can I say? I have the best teacher.”)

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> The Universiade is held every odd-numbered year (2015, 2017, etc.) in our world, but I'm assuming that in YOI-verse it's every even-numbered year (e.g. 2016) instead? Mea culpa if it isn't, but Yuuri mentioned not getting picked for the Uni in ep 1, so...
> 
> Re éclair caramel-and-fruit-and-nut glaze: I am compelled to note that it's a small, paper-thin SLICE of candied apple, and a sliver of walnut. ^o^
> 
> 'Honne wa yopparatta ato de' - literally translates to '(One's) true intent (shows) after getting drunk', and is the Japanese equivalent of 'In vino veritas'/'In wine there is truth'. I will neither confirm nor deny having borrowed this (and 'Ii kara irete', which can mean 'Just put (it) in already' or 'It's fine, so enter/go on in') from certain R-rated YoI doujinshi. *innocent whistle* **Erratum:** It should be _irete_ , NOT 'hairete' (入る = 'hairu'/'iru'; 入れる = 'ireru'). My bad. ( ^///^ ); I still have much to learn!
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Kudos and comments are <3\. Honestly, this was tough to write, mostly because Victor and Yuuri barely interact in it beyond Victor's subconscious. That will be rectified in the next fic, which will be summer-themed (set in Hasetsu between ep4 and ep5) and feature shirokuma/haluhalo, a variant of shaved ice with jelly, fruit, and milk. ~~Barring RL hijinks, I'll be posting it very late in August.~~ **Edit:** [It's up!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11916927)


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